


Let Me Know The Way

by bearkare



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Allusions to period-typical homophobia, Bittersweet, Epistolary, Gen, His daughter is an angel, Language, Letters, M/M, Mentions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sledgefu invented romance, Snafu is a dad, mentions of drug use (opiods), more tags will probably be added later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearkare/pseuds/bearkare
Summary: For better or worse, you’re the voice in my head and so much of what I feel I can only tell you. You know already what you mean to me. Deep within me, I know that will never change. At the start of it all, we were friends, remember? No matter what, I’ll always be your friend. If you ever need me, I will always be there for you.Always Yours,Gene
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 26
Kudos: 28
Collections: Sledgefu Week 2020





	Let Me Know The Way

**Author's Note:**

> Sledgefu Week! It’s here! This is my submission for Day 1: Letters. This is the longest Sledgefu story I’ve written so far, and the first one I’ve ever posted on AO3. I wouldn’t have found the courage to do so without the support of this fandom (that feels more like a family that is the fun kind of dysfunctional). Thank you to everyone who read excerpts and gave me feedback and keysmashes. 
> 
> A few warning apply: mentions of PTSD, mentions of drug use (opiods), allusions to period typical homophobia, and language. And it’s sad. Like, I don’t know how else to warn you about that. Just know, as sad as you might feel reading it, I felt sadder writing it. I woudn’t ask more of you than I would of myself. I hope, by the end, it’s worth it.
> 
> Other notes: I took some liberties with dates (and probably the growth cycle of tomatoes) because it’s my story and I’ll do what I want. This work is based on the portrayal of these characters in the series, not the real men.

_May 8, 1993_  
Dear Mr. Sledge, 

I want to say thank you again for all your help with Dad’s funeral. After everyone had gone home, and we sat in his living room and talked for a while, I felt much better. Then after you left, I pulled your book off the shelf and found the pages where you talk about him. His copy is not as well-worn as mine; I know those memories were hard for him. Your book almost looked brand new, but it was never neglected. I suppose that says just as much about how he felt about his time in the Marines as any amount of talking could. When I first read your book and you spoke of the things you’d seen, I cried because I pictured my father there with you. To think he lived with that for all those years. But then I remembered how kind you were to me when you came to visit when I was a little girl, and you gave me that book about birds. I don’t know about the brotherhood bonds you shared, no one can but you, but I was comforted knowing you’d been there with him. Though I’m sorry you had to see those things too. 

I’ve told you this before, but given that he’s gone, I want to tell you again: I know he loved you all, but most especially you, Mr. Sledge. He was a different person when you were around. Maybe a better way to say it is he felt he could show himself more when you were around. Sergeant Burgin and Mr. Leyden and Corporal De L’eau, they brightened him up, but with you it was different. He never came right out and said anything – he was always so evasive – but one look at the two of you in the same room together and it was obvious. My father, as you know, was a complicated person. He and I lived in each other’s pockets until I was eighteen, and yet I felt I didn’t really know him. That changed when you two reconnected. Some of my best memories with my dad are during the time after he started speaking to you again. 

When I was a girl, most days it felt like he and I were just trying to survive. Raising me alone, after my mother left me with him so she could be with her new husband, it was hard for him. I don’t know how much he told you about those years, but he ran himself ragged working to keep us both housed and fed and clothed, then would come home and make sure I did my homework and my chores. Keeping me safe, making sure I got an education, making sure I felt loved, that’s what he cared about. In those days, girls like me, Creole and poor, were in so much danger. He kept me safe and he loved me so much. Luckily, my grandparents and my aunts were there to take care of me too, but he did so much for me. That’s another reason I cried when I read your book: my mother brought me to live with him just three years after he came home. I was only two years old. He had no time to get help; everything he went through he simply had to live with so he could take care of me. But when you both started speaking again, I learned a new side of him. I can’t thank you enough for being such a close friend to Dad. For the longest time now, I’ve considered you part of my family. 

His life was never easy. Some of that was his fault, but a great deal of it wasn’t. He carried a lot of pain with him because of the things he’d had to see and do. And because of what he had to give up. I realized very young that the sacrifices he made were for his family, for me. It didn’t surprise me because Dad was the kind of person who, when he really loved someone, he’d do anything for them. I wish he could have had what he needed, what he wanted, without having to choose. 

Losing him, even though I knew it was coming, is one of the hardest things I’ve had to go through. I can only imagine how you must feel. I’m always here if you need anything. I would like it very much if we saw each other as much as we did when he was alive. Not only because we can talk about him, but because you’re family. I understand if you need some time, or if you don’t. Grief is a funny thing, takes a hold of each of us differently. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. 

Thank you again, for everything. 

Love,  
Adele

\+ + + + +

_March 1946_

Snaf, 

I wrote to the VA to get your address. I hope you don’t mind. 

Hello from Mobile. I’ve been home a month now and it still feels strange to wake up in a bed, under a roof, clean and dry. All our time in Peking still did not prepare me for being home. Other than adjusting to peacetime, I am doing well. How are you? 

I have written to Burgie, Jay and Leyden. So far, I have only heard back from Burgie. He is busy on his father’s ranch and wrote that the dry air and hard work have done wonders to lift his mood. You remember that Burgie asked Florence to marry him? He told me he had a letter from her accepting his hand and he had wired the money for her to buy passage, though he did not yet know when she would arrive. I watch the mailbox for news from him and the rest. 

I hope this letter finds you well. It seems strange to no longer be with you all, every day. Please write back or call when you can. I’ve written the phone number to the house below. 

Gene

P.S. – Snaf, I know I don’t have to tell you this, but I want you to remember that I know you. I know you don’t ever do things for no reason (as much as you’d like people to believe that sometimes). You had your reasons. I understand. I just – I miss my friend. I miss you.

\+ + + + +

_August 1946_

Merriell, 

Sid’s wedding was today, and I was his best man. He wanted me to wear my dress blues, but I chose to wear my black suit, despite many efforts from Mary and my mother. The only thing I conceded to was wearing a light-colored tie because Mary said I would look like I was going to a funeral otherwise. My hair has grown out some and would set any CO into fits if they saw it. It has lightened with all the time I spend outdoors; my mother laments that I have more freckles because of that as well. I did my best to look presentable, if only to blend in. The ceremony was touching; I was happy to see Sid and Mary begin a new chapter of their lives, enjoying the start of a promising future after the uncertainty of the war. 

The reception was held in the ballroom at the nicest hotel in Mobile. I found myself dreading it. I don’t do well in crowds these days. I tried my best to not look as removed as I felt. Mostly, I stuck to the wall and waited until it was over. As soon as Sid and Mary drove away in their black Chrysler with the tin cans and “Just Married” sign tied to the back, I walked home. Once you’re out of town, the path back to my house is mostly through fields or, when I reach the creek, thick crops of trees. It’s warm tonight, but with a quiet breeze. Still, I was forced to loosen my tie and take off my jacket to stay cool. After the noise of the reception (all the chatter, the band, the cheering), the quiet around me made my ears ring. The whole way home I thought of you, my mind running away with it, and before I knew it, I was walking through the front door. Now I’m in my room, at my desk, still in my suit and writing to you. 

It’s been six months since I saw you last. And I haven’t heard a word from you, though I’ve sent you more than a dozen letters. I didn’t expect a reply to every one, but a word from you, just to prove you’re not lying dead somewhere in a ditch, is the least I think you can do. Some days I’m so angry with you it feels like my blood is molten, burning blistering hot. I’ve thought such hateful things about you that I don’t recognize myself sometimes. You had no right to take that choice away from me. How could you do it? How could you walk away without a word? 

Then, for days after that anger takes a hold of me, I walk around in a thunderous mood and spend every waking hour outside in any kind of weather, because I feel claustrophobic in my old life, in this stuffy old house. And other days, after that dark cloud has rolled by, I feel like if someone so much as looks at me the wrong way, I’ll cry or I’ll fall apart. Sometimes I blame you for that, for leaving me alone. Other times I wish so strongly you were here that I start seeing you everywhere. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve come to, from something I thought was real, but was only a dream; dreams of us together. I’ll wake up speaking out loud to you, or with my hand outstretched, reaching for you. And I worry about you, so much I become sick with it. I barely eat some days from how strongly it takes over me. There is no end to what I worry about. Are you alone, like me? Do you dream like I do? Are you safe? Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Do you kiss strangers and let them touch you? Do you have someone you returned to? (Between the two, I don’t know which hurts more to think about). 

Then there are days where I blame myself, mostly for letting you lie to me, when I knew you were doing it. Because I know you, Merriell. You protect people. You can’t help it. And you’ve been protecting me since the moment we met. I didn’t realize it until later, but that mean toss of your helmet onto that dirty canvas cot was the start of it. I know you. I know you left without a word because you thought you were protecting me. And I knew, when you stood there and told me we could rent a place together, start some kind of new life, that you were lying. But it felt so good to go along with it, to think about it, to press up close to you and feel you pressing back. I just didn’t want to face what I knew was coming. 

On any given day, I feel all these things, none of them, or some God-awful combination. But there are a few constants. Every day, I miss you. I know if you were to show up here, or if I were to come to you, I’d forgive you for everything. And I’d ask you to forgive me. Because I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry I didn’t find the right way to convince you that being together wouldn’t ruin my life, that it’s the only thing that matters anymore. And every day, I love you. 

I’ve never felt the way I feel about you. I love my parents, Ed, Sid, everyone in K company, but I’ve never loved anyone or anything like I love you. It’s like no other feeling. Sometimes I wonder if it’s unhealthy, the way I can’t see myself anymore without seeing you too. But this feeling is so strong, and it’s scares me to death. I second guess myself all the time. What do I really know about love, falling hard for the first person I shared a real kiss with? Am I just a naïve kid? Then I remind myself of coming out on the other side of the war and feeling like any child-like quality I might have had was shot and dismembered and scattered all over the South Pacific. I worry if the way I feel about you is because we lived through all that together. If I had met you some other place, would I love you the same? I wish I could tell you I would, but I just don’t know. But really, does it matter? _This_ life is the one we’re living. And in it, I love you. 

I like to believe you love me, though I fight against it all the time. I can’t know what you’re thinking, I can only go on the things you’ve done. And you left. I have the uncharitable thought that you’re a coward. You might agree with me, if I caught you in a rare moment of saying plain what you feel inside. But I also think of the way you would touch the inside of my elbow when we were tucked into our foxholes, ponchos doing little to keep out the rain but a lot to give us a place to find comfort and safety in each other. Or the way you’d talk about nothing for hours, just to give us all something else to think about. Or how you’d act mean to the boots, just like Gunny, but kept an eye on them anyway. You have such a capacity to love, Merriell; I saw it every day. I like to think I was special to you, though, the way you were always there with me and not anywhere else. The way you kissed me and touched me, your mean teasing, the way you challenged me, how sweet you were when I put my hands on you, or the fact that you let me put my hands on you at all. 

You did tell me you love me. I remember the first time, sitting close together on the stone steps on the outer perimeter of the base in Peking, late at night, freezing our asses off. Do you remember? Earlier that night, you’d pushed and pushed to go to an opium den because Thompson had told you smoking it felt as good as fucking a girl. I remember how you caught my eye when he told you that and we shared a hidden smile. But you insisted anyway, and I finally agreed because I was desperate to prove to you that I wasn’t a goody-two-shoes, that I wasn’t afraid of anything. You were surprised when I finally agreed, I could see it, quick as a flash, before you smiled, absolutely delighted. Of course, you will also remember the first puff from the pipe made you sick; you threw up almost immediately. I don’t think I ever told you, and you probably couldn’t tell with how sick you were, but since they brought me back first, I’d managed to smoke a puff or two and it made me feel indescribably happy. Then I had to take care of you while I was high as a kite. 

Back at the barracks, I sat with you in your bunk while you grumbled on and on about how sick you were and I had to fight hard to keep my mind from floating away and to make sure to remind you how ridiculous you were being. It took a few hours for you to feel better. Then everyone started coming back from going out whoring, so you said you wanted fresh air. I was still high, and I felt so happy about everything around me, most of all being alone with you. We sat close together and shared a cigarette, the cold stone digging into our legs. I knew you were really feeling better when you asked if Thompson was right. The opium let me say, “I don’t know about girls, but it didn’t feel better than fucking you,” low and quiet right into your ear. I wasn’t teasing, but I tried to sound like I was because I wanted to hear you laugh. I remember staring at your face, next to me in profile, looking over every inch of it while you fought back a smile and laughed. You were looking at the ground, blushing, with the streetlamps turning your skin golden brown. I just kept repeating to myself, “He’s so beautiful. He’s so beautiful.” Then you said my name, you called me Genie, and you said, “I love you.” The whole moment felt like I was dreaming, and I smiled and then your face was dark as a storm cloud. My brain was so foggy, I didn’t realize I hadn’t said anything back to you. In my head, I’d said it back. 

At first, I honest to God though you were going to punch me in the face, you looked so mad. Mad that you’d opened up your chest to show me your beating heart and I had just smiled back at you like an idiot. But you remember what I did next, don’t you? I asked, “You really mean that?” and I could hear how earnest I sounded. I wanted to believe you so badly, but you know how I am, so I had to ask. Everything about you - your face, the way you were sitting, the way you looked at me – changed after that. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you; you looked so handsome, so wide open, so brave and so scared. “I do,” you finally said. 

I leaned into you, pressing my forehead against yours and that’s when I felt you shivering. So I wrapped my arm around your shoulder and I leaned back so I could look you in the eye when I said, “I love you, too, Merriell.” You were so dear to me in that moment, I don’t mind telling you, because you showed me yourself. I saw you look around, to make sure nobody could see us, and you kissed me. Your face was so cold! And your hand, too, when you touched my cheek. We could hardly kiss right, from the cold, from how hard we were smiling. For days, for weeks after, I felt like I was floating. 

Looking back, I’m afraid we were both confused, feeling so tender and bruised that of course we reached out for each other. Mistaking all those feelings of desire, of affection, of warmth, of _surviving_ together for real, honest, deep love. I didn’t always feel that way, only when I woke up alone on the train. Knowing in the back of my mind that you could eventually tell me you didn’t think we ought to be together, I was bracing for you to do _something_ , but I never doubted we loved each other. But how could you walk away like that, without a word or a note to explain yourself or to say “I’m not ready” or “I’m so scared, Gene,” if you loved me like you said you did, like you acted like you did? You could have told me, I would have listened, I would have tried to understand. I feel like such a fool; a fool for believing you, a fool for thinking I could trust my own feelings, a fool for thinking someone as beautifully human as you could see something worthwhile in me. 

If you ever read this, you’ll probably laugh at how I’m thinking around in circles. I reach a new conclusion every day. It always changes. I know the answer is right there in front of me, but I can’t see it. Or don’t want to. It’s running me ragged, this twisted up mind of mine. It controls me, not the other way around. It tortures me by putting me places I’m not. It’s relentless in its pursuit to never let me forget. 

The sun is coming up now. I’ve been writing most of the night. I had to stop a few hours ago because my parents were angry that I left the wedding without telling anyone. They worry over me and I try to be patient, but I don’t have control of myself sometimes, or other times I can’t bring myself to care. I wonder about your mother and father. And your sisters and your brother. Your youngest sister must be a teenager by now. The way you spoke about them all, I had hoped I would meet them. I hope they’re a comfort to you. The thought that you may be alone feels worse than anything else. 

I have so much to say to you. So much I can’t say in a letter. Please reply, let me know you’re okay or that you aren’t. Tell me I can come see you. New Orleans is only a short train ride away and I’m useless here in Mobile. Please don’t do this: don’t act like my future is more important than yours. Don’t think you can make my decisions for me. All I want is for us to take care of each other. What did we live through all of it for if we have to be alone? I can’t do this without you. I won’t give up on you. I won’t. Please, Merriell. 

Always Yours,  
Genie

\+ + + + +

_August 1947_

Merriell, 

I haven’t heard from you in a year and half. I spoke with Burgie and he said he’d heard from you recently. He didn’t tell me much, but I trust that if Burgie was worried about you, he would say. I’m glad to hear you are doing alright, truly I am. 

Talking with Burgie, it made me finally accept something I’ve been fighting against since you left. For the longest time, I thought you owed me an explanation. That it was the least you could do. I also thought that all I really needed to do was to talk to you, fight with you long enough to make you see that if we love each other, being together is worth losing everything else. In my mind, the biggest problem was that I was right, and you were wrong, and I just had to figure out a way to make you _see_. So I wrote you letters, I called you, I even came to New Orleans looking for you on more than one occasion. But I still never heard a word. 

Then Burgie told me you’d talked to him. At first, I was furious. It confirmed that you weren’t avoiding us all, you were avoiding me. That bright spark of anger burnt out quickly though, and I finally let myself accept that the problem wasn’t that you needed convincing, it was that I felt like you owed me some kind of debt for what you’d done. The problem was that we want two different things. What I want is only half the picture, and it’s not more important than what you want. I want to be together and you don’t. You changed your mind, or you never really wanted me in the first place. The reason doesn’t matter. All the promises we made to each other, all the things we shared, the feelings we had, they shouldn’t matter because: you changed your mind. You don’t owe me a reason. It’s as simple as that. I know I said I’d never give up on you, and I really believed that. But I was unwilling to admit to myself that you have a say in all this too. I’m so selfish, so spoiled, it took me so long to see it. I’m sorry and I hope one day you can forgive me. 

So this will be the last letter I send to you. This fall, I’m starting classes at Alabama Polytechnic. They begin next week. I’ve wasted enough time. Every boy and man dead on those islands or in that ocean would curse me for my idleness. I’ve taken so much for granted. I hate myself for it. 

I won’t stop writing to you. For better or worse, you’re the voice in my head and so much of what I feel I can only tell you. You know already what you mean to me. Deep within me, I know that will never change. At the start of it all, we were friends, remember? No matter what, I’ll always be your friend. If you ever need me, I will always be there for you. 

Always Yours,  
Gene

\+ + + + +

_June 1951_

Merriell, 

I got married. I won’t lie and say you’d like her; you’d hate her. But I really do love her. She’s smart, stands up for herself. We work well together, we make each other happy. 

I hope you’re happy, wherever you are.

\+ + + + +

_April 5, 1956_

Eugene, 

It is a pleasant morning here. Your mother and I were up early because it is too hot after 10 am to do anything outside. We cleaned up the garden beds and finished picking the last of the tomatoes. No other news to report: everyone in the family and the neighborhood is the same as when we spoke on the phone last week.

We are sorry again about Laura. I imagine it has not been easy for you. Divorce is never easy; it comes at such a great cost. Whatever you need from me or your mother or Ed, please let us know. Work can be a good distraction but take care of yourself. You will hate me for saying it, but I worry about you. Not because I don’t think you’re strong but because you feel as though you have to do things on your own. There is no shame in asking for help, Eugene. 

I will keep this brief because you will be here in a few days. I only wanted you to know that your mother and I love you. We are here for you, whatever you need. 

With Love,  
Father

\+ + + + +

_April 19, 1956_

Merriell,

I just stepped through the door. Actually, truly, walked into my empty house, dropped my bags by the door and sat down at my desk. The last three days are running through my mind, every detail as vivid as a movie. It hasn’t stopped since I watched you and Adele until you were out of sight at the train station. All the way home, all I did was write, thinking of all the things I didn’t tell you, wanting to remember everything we said and did. Doing that was the only thing keeping me from crying. 

When I made up my mind to come and find you, you have to know that I felt as in love with you as I did when I was 22. Ten years had done nothing to diminish that. I’ve wanted you every day. The hard part was coming to see you not knowing if it was the same for you. Up until you opened your door, I changed my mind about a million times on what I thought was in your heart. Nothing I set out to do went like I planned, but I’m sitting here now knowing how you feel, knowing that you still love me too. 

You’ve only become more handsome over the years, which I didn’t think was possible. You took my breath away when you opened your door, standing there in brown slacks and a blue shirt, curls as black as always, clean shaven, tired but clear eyed. Then you spoke to me like no time had passed at all and I felt my heart beating hard in my chest. But you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you introduced me to Adele. I knew you could tell, too, because you got that look of wicked delight in your eyes, that familiar mischievousness. You looked so proud of her, too. As handsome as you looked when I saw you again, you have never been so striking as when you were around Adele or speaking about Adele. Your daughter is beautiful. And she’s so smart, just like you. She’s all the best parts of you. You are a wonderful father to her, but then you always were good at taking care of people. I can see how much you love her. Because she’s a part of you, I love her too. I can’t imagine just how hard it’s been to take care of her by yourself. I wish things were different, that I could stay, that somehow, we could be a family, but really there’s no point in wishing that. Asking you to take that risk is the cruelest thing I could do. Thank you for letting me meet her. 

I didn’t come prepared for it at all, but meeting your mother was wonderful, even if it was brief. I felt I had to hide almost every part of myself from her so she wouldn’t see what you mean to me. But to see her, to encounter parts of you in others, to be around your family, only made me love you more. Seeing you in a new place, among new people, I could see a fuller picture of you. I’m so happy you have your family, even though you said it hasn’t always been easy being around them. I don’t think I said it like I should have, but I was sorry to hear about Michel. I can only imagine what I would feel if I lost my brother. You never said much about him during the war, but I could tell when you told me about him yesterday that you were very close. I’m so sorry. 

All weekend, I resigned myself to simply getting to spend some time with you and nothing more. And that would have been okay. But I couldn’t lie to you when you asked what I wanted, what I had come looking for. Any hope of trying to start a life together was gone, but it didn’t stop me from aching for you. The want I’ve felt for you all these years has sat heavy as a stone in my chest. Then to have you right there close to me, closer than arm’s reach, it took me over. I couldn’t hide it. And I could tell you wanted me too. Believe me, as deeply as I wanted you, if you’d told me no, I would have left. But you didn’t. You told me you had been missing me too. I don’t know if we made the right choice last night, but I don’t regret it. 

I never imagined I’d have to wait ten years to make love to you. During the war, we were never really alone. We were always so rushed, and I was happy to give and get anything I could, no matter how quick. I was surprised at how nervous I was last night. You remember I asked if we could turn off the lights and get under the covers? Even though I wanted so badly to see the moonlight on you. I didn’t mind your teasing about it because there was no real bite to it. But ten years is a long time. Then we made each other laugh because we kept bumping heads and accidentally jamming sharp joints into soft places. Seeing you smile, it made all that nervousness go away. After that, it felt like we’d never been apart, we moved with each other so easily. 

Lord, it felt good to take my time with you. To take time with each other. I love the way your body has changed: the deeper lines on your face, how your shoulders are firmer from lifting and cutting lumber, the slight bump of stomach below your belly button, the scars you have that are new to me. And I love how you’re the same: you’re still a good kisser, sure with your hands and square fingers, small and sinewy, still a brat. You still set me on fire when you touch me. You’re still so sweet and lithe when I touch you. 

I surprised you, I think, when I could tell you what I wanted without blushing clear down to my chest. Without blushing at all. You surprised me when you blushed after I told you I wanted to…well you remember. I gave you a hard-enough time about it. It felt incredible to learn and remember the things you like, how to touch you and draw you out, open you up. When we were younger, I was always in awe of how comfortably you moved in your own body, so sure of who you were, of how to move and how to be. I was happy to follow your lead, to let you teach me. It took me some time, but now I feel surer about myself. And you noticed. It was there in the way you didn’t wait for me to catch up because you didn’t need to. I was leading and you followed. 

You’re so _alive_. Taking a hold of you has always meant walking a line between firmness and gentleness and you moving in my hands has always felt like a gift. Mer, it’s been so long and there is no one I trust more than you. When it’s you, I’m never afraid. All I wanted last night was to disappear into you. And I did; I felt you wrapped all around me, moving through me, the two of us blurring together. The only thing I cared about was making you feel good, taking care of you, and you let me. There’s nothing sweeter than seeing you let go and knowing it was me who brought you there. 

Talking with you, our voices quiet, I felt something in me slide into place. I felt a pain I’d been living with so long begin to ease. It made me nearly breathless, feeling that release. I have missed your voice, the way you look at me, the way you think. Everything you wanted to tell me I savored each word as you gave it to me. To have you rest your chin on my chest and feel you breathe against me, I felt like time was oozing by. You fell asleep for a while, your arm tucked under your head like you always used to do. Lord, you looked exhausted. I wasn’t ready to stop talking with you, listening to you, but I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up. All I wished for was to stay, to share the things that were making you so tired. I don’t know how long you slept, but time seemed to crawl by as I counted your breaths. When you woke up, you looked like you were sorry, but you shouldn’t have been. Everything that came after that, in that hour before dawn, I remember every detail. I’ve never felt anything like holding onto you that way, not just with my hands or with my mouth but with something more that I can’t name. Seeing the color high on your cheeks, watching your ribs slide under your skin, wiping a tear away from your temple, all I could say over and over was “I love you.” Listening to you say it back sent a searing pain through me, knowing I was leaving you soon. I wonder if it hurt for you to hear it from me. 

I’m so worried I hurt you more by coming to see you. If I did, I’m so sorry, Merriell. But I’m selfish, and I didn’t want to leave. I’m so grateful for our night together. It’s not enough, it will never be enough, but it’s something. I wish things were different, but if they were, you wouldn’t have Adele. All that matters is where we are and where we’re going. I love you, Merriell. It’s something I have to live with every day, but I would never change it. Please don’t feel like you have to hold on to me, you have no obligation to. You deserve to be happy, deserve someone to take care of you, someone to love you in all the ways that I can’t, that I’m not allowed to. I’ll think about you every day. I can’t separate you from me. I love you, I always will. 

Yours,  
Gene

\+ + + + +

_April 24, 1956_

Dear Mr. Sledge,

It was nice to meet you. I had fun with you. My favorite thing we did was when me, my dad and you went to Lake Pontchartrain to look at the birds. That was my favorite. Thank you for my bird book. Me and my dad look at it every night before I go to bed. My favorite bird is the pelican because they have pretty black and white feathers and because I see them flying when I visit my Maw Maw. I saw your favorite bird the cardinal on my auntie’s clothes wire. He was so pretty. I know it was a boy because you said that girl cardinals are brown. I remember you said when you see a cardinal it means someone you love who isn’t alive anymore is coming to see you. I think it was my Nonc Meesh. I hope you come back to see us soon. 

Love,  
Adele Shelton

P.S. – My dad said hi.

\+ + + + +

_February 1979_

Merriell, 

I’ve decided to begin writing about the war. Really, I’ve been writing things here and there for the past 35 years, but I feel like I’m ready to put it all down completely. Time has barely diminished how vivid those memories are, but I feel I owe it to everyone who didn’t make it back to write down the things we went through. I can’t help but feel like people don’t really understand and they need to. So I’ve made myself a writing schedule and I’m going to get to work. 

Everything I’ve written so far has only been seen by me. It’s no surprise that so many of my memories include you and cannot be told in full without you. The only reason I made it through our war was because of you. But you don’t like sharing yourself with strangers, I know that. I guess what I’m asking is either for your blessing or your refusal. Whatever you decide, I’ll honor. 

Always,  
Genie

\+ + + + +

_September 1981_

Merriell, 

I know how you feel about this project of mine, but it’s over and done with now. I received the first box of books here at the house just two days ago. Burgie, Bill, Jay and a few others should get their copies in a few days. Yours has been delayed for quite a few reasons. You know most of those reasons, but I also had to take the time to write you this letter, too. 

I hope you’ll read the book. Just once, at least. You don’t have to tell me what you think of it. And if you never read it, I understand. But you always talk about how hard it is to know what I’m thinking sometimes. It’s written out plain as day on those pages. And in every word is love; love for each Marine, each Japanese solider, and most especially for you. Like you made clear, I took you out of most of these stories, but you were there, in my mind, while I wrote every word. This book is for everyone who didn’t make it back, but really, it’s for you because you saved my life and (though I know you won’t agree) because you’re the best of us. 

I still plan on driving out to see you next month. I’m glad you don’t live too far away; these old bones can’t take sitting for that long anymore. I just hope when I get there, if you’ve read the book, you’ll still answer the door. I would say it’s rude to turn an old man away, but you don’t have any manners, anyway. Guess I’ll just have to take my chances, which is nothing new with you. Say hello to Adele for me.

Yours,  
Genie

\+ + + + +

_April 1982_

Gene, 

I’m looking forward to seeing you all again. I really can’t believe it’s been almost 40 years since we all were together at one time. Florence says she’s going to stay at the ranch this time around, but she says hello and that she hopes you’ll come visit again soon. The plans for our garden that the two of you put together worked so well. Florence goes and sells the peppers and tomatoes at the farmer’s market and folks tell us they’re the best they’ve tasted. 

I’m glad you persuaded Snaf to join us. If anyone could have done it, it’s you. He always was one of those sorts that once his mind was made up, he wasn’t about to move an inch. I sure have missed him. I reached out to him over the years, but he mostly stayed quiet. No hard feelings; I know the war affected us all in different ways. I’m glad to know you two stayed friends, though. As odd of a pair as you two were (and it used to really puzzle me one some occasions), you always took good care of each other. 

When you come out again, see if you can’t manage to bring Snaf with you. I’ll never forget him talking for hours about just how spicy he liked his food. Those peppers sure are spicy to me, but I’d like to know what he thinks. 

Burgie

P.S. - Do you mind if I bring along some things I’ve written? I really trust you to give me an honest opinion about it. If the weekend gets too busy, I understand if we don’t have time, but I would really appreciate it.

\+ + + + +

_September 1982_

Mr. Sledge, 

We spoke on the phone already about this, but I wanted to send along the pictures I took of some of the houses Dad and I looked at for you. I know you’ve been to New Orleans plenty of times, so I’ve written the names of the cross streets because you know the area well enough. All of these are about the same as far as size and price, so it’s really a matter of which one you prefer. They’re all within walking distance of Dad’s house, too. You picked a good time to find a place around here; lots of small homes for sale for cheap. Anyway, take a look at them, then call me and let us know which ones you like. 

We’re both so excited you decided to move to New Orleans. It will give me peace of mind knowing Dad has someone to spend his days with. He’s close to retiring, as you know. Not exactly a spring chicken anymore. When he’s not at work, he’s either at my house always wanting to fix things, even if they’re perfectly fine or he’s fixing things at his house, climbing up on ladders or staying out too long in the heat when he shouldn’t be. He’s so stubborn he’ll let himself get a broken hip or a head injury just to say he never took another order from anybody after he left the Marines. I think if he heard from you that he needs to behave, that’s he’s not 25 anymore, he’d at least concede to someone helping him while he piddles and tinkers around the house. I don’t mind taking care of him, of course not, but I won’t say no to some reinforcements either. 

Look forward to hearing from you soon.

Take care,  
Adele

\+ + + + +

_October 1982_

Ed, 

I’m writing to give you my new address in New Orleans. I’m all settled in. The house isn’t all that big, but it’s just me here, so it’ll do nicely. 

It’s a wonderful city. I’ve been here so many times over the years, it almost feels like a second home. There’s a restaurant near my house that serves really delicious seafood. I’ll never understand how you think seafood from Alabama is the only kind worth eating. So, yes, that’s a challenge. I had to think of something to get you to come out here, you old grump. Bring Sally and all the rest with you when you come. Lord knows just the two of us together would be a disaster. If it helps, all you’d have to pay for is the gas to get out here. 

I think I’ve made a good choice moving here. Even if I am an old man, the change of scenery has made me feel lighter. There’s no shortage of birds and plants to muse over. And I’ve already met all the neighbors. My old war buddy, Merriell Shelton, lives close by too. I have dinner with him and his daughter and grandkids several nights a week, so I’m not all alone. Shelton isn’t in the best of health, and his daughter appreciates that there’s someone close by to keep him company. Most of his family have passed on already except a younger sister, but she doesn’t live here. And his daughter still has children at home to look after. Shelton and I were real close during the war, so it feels nice to help out a friend. 

I know you’re worried about me, but sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re being my big brother or just being a pain in the ass. Probably both. I don’t know how old I have to be before you’ll trust that I can take care of myself, but I promise I’m doing just fine. It sounds like I don’t appreciate it, but I do. 

Call and let me know when you want to come out, I’ll get the couch ready for you! 

Love,  
Gene

\+ + + + +

_January 1987_

Mer, 

I woke up in the middle of the night. That’s common for me. It used to be because of my dreams, but now it’s just because I’m old. Last night was different. I dreamed of you and me together. We were young, though I don’t quite know how old. Time is so funny in dreams. I was walking down the street with you and we were holding each other; I had my arm around your shoulder, you had yours around my waist. You kissed me on the neck, right there in broad daylight, and nobody cared. You looked so happy and I felt like I was glowing from the inside out. The sun was shining on us and the air was cool. I wanted to stay in that dream longer, but when I turned my head to watch where we were walking, I woke up. I don’t get dreams like that often; ones that aren’t full of ghosts and death. Those aren’t worth remembering, but this one is, so I wanted to write it down for you. 

I’m picking this letter back up. I stopped so I could walk over to your house and have breakfast with you. Now I’m back in my office and you’re sitting behind me, reading. We don’t get up to much anymore, do we? But having all those mundane things to do together, it’s more than I ever thought we would have. I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time and all we do is sit together or go have breakfast with all those insufferable old men. Why do we do that, anyway? You don’t even like them. Gets us out of the house, I guess. Then we both fall asleep in the afternoon, sitting up in those recliners because we don’t hardly sleep at night anymore. About the only exciting thing we do is spend time with Adele and your grandkids. Or talk to Burgie or Bill or Jay on the phone. But you’re happy, I can see it. The more you bicker at me, the more I know you’re happy. 

I’m grateful for every day with you. It didn’t quite work out how I hoped; it worked out better. 

Yours,  
Genie

\+ + + + +

_June 1992_

Mer, 

Tomorrow will be 48 years since we met. Most days it feels like I blinked and here we are. And now you’re sick. You can guess how many nights I’ve sat up only thinking of how I’m not ready to let you go. For more days than I care to admit, it’s all I thought about while you were sitting right there beside me. “Living in the moment” has never come easy to me, but I’ll do my best to be here with you now, to make sure you are happy and loved until you leave. Don’t be angry with me when I get ahead of myself; I will feel that enough on my own. 

Part of me wants to tell you that I’ll be okay without you. I lived away from you for so long and I survived. That part of me doesn’t want you to have to spend any time worrying about me. But, the other part of me knows that I can’t do this without you. I love you with everything in me. And because you love me, I’m living inside you. When you go, you’ll take that part of me with you. But it’s more than that. I’ve never known anyone like you. I know I’ll feel the absence of you like a gnawing hunger. I never thought I’d have to go through that again. But really, I don’t have to say that to you. You already know how devastated I’ll be. Still, even now, I can’t lie to you.

Ever since I realized I love you, all I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy. It’s why I ask you all the time, “Are you happy?” I think I have (you’ll laugh at how I still won’t let myself be sure, even after all these years). I started asking you so much, I think I drove you nearly crazy. So you asked me one day, “Why do I always have to be happy? What do you mean ‘Am I happy?’” Do you remember what I told you? It’s been so important to me that you feel loved, always. If you know you feel loved, then I can rest easy. Love is the only thing that matters, and I never wanted you to ever go without it. So, are you happy, Merriell? 

A long time ago, I promised myself I would always tell you how I feel. Watching life after life get cut short during the war, I didn’t see how I could behave any other way. So I’ve written you volumes of letters and poems and drawn you sketches and told you things in the sunshine and in the quiet dark. I never wanted to leave anything unsaid. And yet, I feel like this letter could be pages and pages long, a whole book, written to make sure you know how much I love you. But no matter what words I could come up with, nothing will strike the heart of the matter, and strike it deep, like “I love you.” 

Such a simple sentence, such a little word “love.” But the truest things are usually the simplest, I think. In our final time together, and just before you go, that is what I want you to know: that I love you. Being with you, loving you, is the best thing I’ve done with my life, it’s the thing I’m proudest of. I love you in every way that I can. And we’ve been so lucky; few people find a love like we have. And people like us rarely get to spend a life together. You’ve made me so happy and there’s nothing I would change. 

I don’t want you to leave, but there’s nothing I can do. All I want is for you to understand, to know, that I love you. Because I do, and I always will.

Yours Always,  
Genie

\+ + + + +

_November 1992_

Gene, 

I’m going against just about everything in me by writing this letter to you. But you know I’ve always been prepared to do a whole lot for you. 

We are very different people. You’re the bravest person I ever met. I’ve never been brave a day in my life. Just always did things because I didn’t see any other choice. It scares you and it hurts you to love me the way you do, but you do it anyway. You deserved that from me too. I’ve never given you everything you deserve. You’ll disagree with me, but I’ll always know, even though I tried me hardest, even though I fell and crawled and damn near tore myself open trying to give you all of me, there is more I could have done. Putting myself through the hurt of sharing every part of me wasn’t a choice. I couldn’t, _I couldn’t_ , even for you. And I’m sorry. You’ll tell me it was enough, but if you knew what was still inside me, you might disagree. 

Words come so easily to you and they mean so much to you. But for me, talking has always fallen short. I felt like the only way you would know how much I love you is by showing you. Coming here to the end, though, I wanted to try one last time to explain how much I love you. But I still can’t. I’ve spent my whole life trying to think of what to say that would be _right_. How do you explain what love feels like? You can’t. Gene, even in all our time together, with as many ways as you’ve said you love me, I know I still have hardly any understanding of how you feel about me. Do you see? If you can’t put it into words, then there’s no hope for me. The best I can do is say, Genie, I love you. Loving you and raising Adele are the only things I ever did worth anything.  
Looking back, I don’t regret many things in my life, but I regret staying away from you after the war. Even if it gave me Adele. You’ve told me that you understand, that it’s okay, but there’s nothing that will change how I feel about that, even after all these years. 

There’s something I want you to do for me. Look in on Adele, when you can. She understands. I’ll feel better knowing you’re there for each other. 

I don’t know what comes after all this, but if it’s possible, I’ll miss you. I’m sorry I have to leave you alone again. I tried to show you that I love you as much as I could. I think you know that. I hope you do. I felt your love every day, cher. I am happy; you made me happy. 

Love,  
Mer

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and Happy Sledgefu Week!


End file.
